Helicopter happiness

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Do you ever wonder how memories work? Like the things you DO remember contrasted with the things you DON’T. Or the very fact that a simple moment can stick with you forever. That you’ll recall it some day when you’re 80 and you’re relaxing on a spring day and the little helicopters from the nearby oak tree come fluttering down from the blue, blue sky.

I remember sitting in the grass near the fence at the very back of the playground. Lincoln Elementary School. Probably 5th grade, but possibly 4th or 6th.

I remember sitting with my legs crossed with a few of my girlfriends.

I remember picking the green helicopters from the grass and twirling them between my thumb and forefinger.

I remember someone informing us that you could stick them in your mouth, between your tongue and the roof, and position it just right and you’d get a funny little kazoo-ish sound.

I remember all of us sitting there in our semi-circle, with the discards from the oak tree, giving it our all to create that sought-after sound.

I believe I’ll remember the look on my son’s face last evening when I threw a helicopter into the air. I’ll remember that moment when I’m 80 too. The squeal of delight as it came fluttering furiously back to earth. The smile. The laughter. The insistence that I throw another one into the air. And another. And another. “More, Mommy!”

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